Just a shard of what we've lost
by Darth Krande
Summary: An old memory of the hero we know as Optimus Prime. Just a snapshot of a peaceful Cybertron, of a brother and a mentor, from before the war.


Just a shard of what we've lost

Iacon was best known for the Celestial Spires. Vos was the fliers' city. Kalis was the centre of heavy industry, and Tagan was the core of the planet's power supply.

And Kaon held the most infamous gladiatorial pitfights on our world.

The fights were too brutal to be held legally, yet (according to many high-ranking Cybertronians) they were too spectacular to be missed. So they picked some generic disguise, possibly black or at least dark to avoid attention, and pretended not to recognise each other at the ringside.

The names of the next two warriors had been announced, and the crowd cheered. Also, it was the last chance to make bets, and some fools were eager to put their last shanix at stake.

And then they all went silent as the gladiators entered the arena. Two workers ritually checked their most important input ports and their processor housings. There was only one rule here, but it was holy for us all. No Cybertronian shall ever be tricked or forced into a gladiatorial fight. If they wanted to fight, to blemish their hands with others' energon or to risk their own sparks, this was the place. But no Cybertronian shall ever be made to fight another against their own will.

It wasn't always so. The spiky bluish warrior on the left could have told long stories of the time we were under quintesson suppression, in fact, he was one of the gladiators who started the rebellion which had lead us to freedom. Compared to him, the gray mech on the right was a youngling still.

„Oh, it's you?" those full-of-life red optics shone up in mocking adoration. „I thought you were too old for this kind of games."

„I have never criticised you for being verdant for this, Megs" replied the older. As he made the greeting movements, orange panels became visible under his bluish purple camouflage.

„Isn't this...?" the mech not far from me murmured. I blicked at him, wondering how he would have liked his own incognito blown. If the Praxian senator decided to come to see an illegal outing, didn't the Prime have the right to fight in the arena? Perhaps we were hypocrites indeed. I turned back to see the warriors.

Megatron was pacing around the older mech, and I could feel his utter confusion. _You__ haven__'__t__ expected__ him__ to__ be __the__ mech__ behind __the__ stagename__ of__ Galvatron, __eh?_ He grinned as if he'd heard my thoughts. I shut my CPU up, so as not to disturb him again.

The bluish purple stood calm, only following my brother with his eyes. When he got behind his back, Sentinel had politely turned away. I almost facepalmed when Megatron fell for the old trick and attacked.

I had to admit, Megatron took it relatively well when he recieved that intense kick in his chest. Sentinel backed up, piercing his lance into my brother's shoulder, still looking away from him. His spectators loved his show of skill and superiority. But, to my unconcealed satisfaction, my brother demonstrated his stamina and unlikely high tolerance of pain, grabbed the lance with both hands, and pulled it until he could turn Sentinel around.

„Look... at... me!" he hissed. Now it was his spectators' time to cheer at his strength. I wished he would just be wise enough to keep an optic on Sentinel's flail. But no, he was too busy spiking the lance through the Prime's throat.

_Watch__ his __hand!__ His__ right__ hand!_ And he did. He couldn't exactly avoid the hit, but at least he didn't get his servos crushed. In a nanosec, he activated his own morningstar, and the crowd shouted with glee as the two brandished similar weapons against each other.

_Thanks, Orion._

I sat back, enjoying the show. Sentinel Prime was obviously more experienced, but he was careful not to rub Megatron's faceplates into it. To any bot around me, it looked like a fair fight with almost equal chances. To me...

_When was Cybertron first knocked out of its orbit?_

I gave them both a look. Sentinel was currently hammering Megatron's helmet, and I was sure he would hit somewhere more sensible if he wouldn't get a correct answer. I had to help my brother.

_5-8-84. I hope._

It had to be, for Sentinel looked away for just long enough for Megatron to grab the lance again, and the fight had been even again. Sentinel didn't seem to want his own lance to be shattered, so he subspaced his flail, and took his weapon back. His gray opponent had just enough time to pull out his sword before our mentor ambushed him. They carried on for almost a klik before my brother had to ask for my help again.

_Is there anything on Cybertron that was named after an organic being?_

Knowing his honest disgust towards any organic life forms, this question seemed unfair.

_Simfur,_ I helped again.

Sentinel looked around, trying to find be in the loud, cheering crowd. He was no fool, he knew I had to be somewhere, but he couldn't find me in my black camouflage. He looked slightly confused as he pretended to make a mistake and let Megatron kick him away to a preferable distance. I hid my grin behind my palm. Our bond with my brother was much stronger than what either of us shared with our mentor. He obviously couldn't overhear us.

I watched them, not only as a spectator but as a family member, mildly wondering why they loved fighting so much. Our mentor was once built for this purpose, and after wasting a whole dekacycle on diplomacy and foreign policy, he might have needed his joor off. And he was fraggin' good at martial arts, and he even enjoyed teaching us a few useful moves. But why did he have to come to Kaon for that? Only to crush the reputation of my aspiring brother? And Megatron? Why did he always have do jump into any madness without giving it a second thought? (Second? First!)

I felt his satisfaction as he chased our mentor halfway through the arena. Knowing that Sentinel couldn't be simply chased around, I guessed he got a question he could answer on his own. Or rather, he cornered the Prime with some wisely worded hypothesis. Either way, he had the high ground.

I looked into Sentinel's wise blue optics, through my brother's and through my own. He was the full embodiment of knowledge, of power, and ancient wisdom. He was the Prime.

He looked at us, in my brother's optics and in my own, and I've seen pride in them. And patience.

Oh, how much we've both tested that patience, usually with our combined force. Even when we were on the two furthest points of our planet, we held together. Or, when one of us was off in the deep space. Or when we were at the two sides of the pit's security railing.

He never seemed to mind. He pretended to, sometimes, but I could always see his love and hope in his deep blue optics. He'd told us how proud he was of us, an ambicious Decepticon and a gentle Autobot. According to him, we completed each other, and back then, I had no reason to doubt his words.

I watched him playing the ruining game with my brother, the two of them wrecking each other's frame with desperate passion. I almost yawned. _Mouthplate_, I noted to myself. If Megatron carried on being my brother, I would need a mouthplate. That was it.

My brother was currently backing me, I couldn't see his „this is how it feels when you're alive" expression, but I could watch his fast but slightly uncoordinated movements, his stern but graceful hits and the distracting shine of his shielding plates that seemed to move on their own, yet, in perfect harmony. He personified what Sentinel taught us about Decepticon ideals: fierce warrior, capable of protecting Cybertron, unbreakable bodyguard of Primus himself, willing to sacrifize anything for the benefit of our race. Yes, that was my brother exactly.

However, he was currently being boxed in the face, without his sword, without any grace. With each hit, he staggered backwards a step or two. Sentinel was pissed like I haven't seen him since we've accidentally rusted his spaceship's controls. _What__'__s __wrong,_ my spark shouted.

_Where __did__ the __rebellion__ against __the __quintessons__ start?_ my brother managed while he was being slapped to the side of the pit.

Suddenly I understood our mentor's anger and disappointment. _Right__ here,__ you__ moron!__ Haven__'__t__ you__ seen__ the__ memorial__ at__ the__ main__ entrance?_

_Since__ when__ do __I__ use__ the__ spectators__' __entrance?_ he asked back while kicking Sentinel on a sensitive slot between two panels. He gained about an astrosecond to clear his CPU and prepare himself for the next attack.

The crowd was still enthusiastic, those who had bet for the duration of the fight had already felt their winnings on their accounts. By this time it was also obvious that none of them would „clearly" defeat the other, they weren't in the condition to defeat anybot. There were two cracked, unarmed mechs, low on energon, busy with ignoring the damage reports of their frames. They have thoroughly slagged each other, and I started to wonder if I'd have to interfere. There wasn't an exact regulation on this, but a relative on the winner's side had some right to speak up. Otherwise, the audience was only allowed to encourage. The warrior had to make the final decision for himself.

I sighed. Whatever the outcome would be, I was on the winner's side. And on the looser's too, coincidentally. I steadied myself.

Under normal circumstances, I would have known that Sentinel would never offline my brother, but the fact that he might have legally had the right to do so made me prepare my own fighting protocols. Not even he was going to harm my brother in my presence.

But then again, I looked at them both, at their half-annihilated bodies, and started wondering how was I supposed to tow my family home.


End file.
